


kiss and control

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Series: Matt's loosely connected fics about Laura and Daken [5]
Category: Dark Wolverine (Comics), Marvel
Genre: Alcohol, Blood Kink, Drug Addiction, Homophobic Language, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:32:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2090826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set the eve before Daken's first death in New York.</p><p>'None of this is real, of course. Bullseye is, well, who knows exactly where Bullseye is right now, at this specific moment in time. Certainly not here, in a penthouse apartment with a view of the New York skyline Daken had literally killed for. But if he was here, what would he say? Something like -</p><p>“You’re a fucking mess.”</p><p>- yes, something like that. Daken’s glad, very glad that the real Lester isn’t here to see him like this.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	kiss and control

**Author's Note:**

> Read the warnings please. Title taken from another AFI song, the lyrics for this one work really well with Daken at this story arc.

Daken pours himself another glass of vodka, and downs it in one sloppy gulp. Liquid dribbles from his mouth to splash the collar of his otherwise pristine shirt. In another person, he’d find his own actions repulsive and pathetic, but he’s so far beyond petty concerns about aesthetics. He’s in an ugly mood, the kind that the beautiful trappings he adorns himself with cannot disguise. And it’s not like there’s anyone around to see him like this, after all. No, he’s alone once more. That’s as it should be.He grins viciously at that and pours himself yet another glass, lifting it in an ironic toast. To my hopes and dreams. To the burnt-out wreck of them.

He swallows it down, grimacing as the alcohol sears his throat with cold fire. His system’s wrecked enough from the aftermath of the Heat still in his system that he’s left reeling in his seat. Nausea washes over him in sickening waves, and Daken can’t tell if its from the copious quantities of vodka he’s consumed or from the disgust that something as mundane as alcohol can affect him. Once, he’d been indestructible. Untouchable. Heat had changed all that, had stripped away from him his birthright, made him everything he despised, made him ordinary. Weak, vulnerable, human. Pathetic. And that had been the real draw of the drug, hadn’t it? It hadn’t been the high, nothing quite so pedestrian as that. The real rush had come the moment he’d realised he’d been compromised, as he’d watched his skin refuse to sew shut, understood the stakes in the game had been raised. Why do you limit yourself? His lip curls in a sneer at the memory, but there’s no one to direct his disdain at other than himself. He’s alone. Alone in a penthouse, looking out over an indifferent city that he came to conquer, but damn it, if he can’t, at least he’ll leave it in ruin. The setting sun sets fire to the horizon, and he watches the city burn. His shadow drips onto the carpet like melting wax. Skin prickles with fever heat, shivers at the ghostfire touch of the dying light.

Compromised healing factor or no, the momentary dizzy distraction of alcohol has passed and Daken’s left painfully sober. His bones ache and he feels every one of his seventy odd years. More time than many people are granted, he knows, yet he still feels cheated. It’s a shallow consolation knowing that he at least orchestrated his own downfall (is orchestrating his own death), but he supposes he’ll have to take it. It is exhausting living down to everyone’s expectations of him, but at the same time he’s failed to surpass the narrow, carefully delineated role that Romulus cast him in. _(Damn you, Laura.)_  He doesn’t think he can live with the disappointment. A little self-awareness is a dangerous thing. He doesn’t want to face the truth unless its laced with a sugar-pill.

And he’s resisted as long as he can. Daken spares a moment to commend himself sardonically on his self-control (after all, it’s the only thing that sets him apart from the animals), before rising from the stool in one fluid movement and crossing to the coffee table. He sits himself down on the couch, forces himself to move calmly though there’s a noticeable tremor in his hand as he reaches for the pills he’d left in a bowl on the table earlier in the day. There’s a scant handful, and he feels his stomach clench in fear at the knowledge that he has a day, maybe two’s worth of pills, if he sets enough aside for his other plans. He swallows the pill quickly. He’s going to rid himself of this demeaning dependence, whatever it takes.

Languidly, Daken lies back, eyes fluttering closed. It takes a while for the drug to kick in, and the high is never quite as good as the last but. He feels good. Fuck, he feels on top of the damn world, and he hasn’t felt like that in so long, since… Madripoor? At the start, at least. The feeling might be momentary, it might be a chemical illusion, but what else does he have right now? A choked laugh bubbles up from deep within. Nothing, nothing. Alone, adrift. Free, in all the terrifying, dizzying ramifications of the word. Unaccountable to the laws of others since he places no value in those other than himself.

Poor Donna. Damaged Donna. Fragile Donna with her breakable body. He’d tried to show her this, tried to share this with her. The sublimity of solipsism. He supposes that was his mistake, trying to invite another into a paradise meant for one. A logical paradox. Love. He’d thought her his reflection, and when he’d reached out, like Narcissus he’d drowned.

Perhaps he’s too selfish to love. He’s sure there are those who think him incapable but he’s at least come close. There are people that were more than means to an end. Donna, Donna. Dearest Donna. He’s not sure if he’s more disappointed in her or himself. He said he could change but he’d tasted the lie on his lips before he’d finished speaking. For better, for worse, he is what he is.

Then there was Lester. Donna had made him want to transcend - transcend all the limitations that definitions and diagnoses placed on him, to love and let another love him rather than worship at his feet; transcend morality, destroy the artificial dichotomy between superhero/supervillain ; transcend humanity, become god. Lester… made him want to give in to his basest instincts. To kill only for the glory of the kill. To strip away all complexities and contradictions, the carefully constructed identity he’d built for himself, until he’s no better than an animal. Lester made him want and Lester left that want frustrated.

With an effort, Daken drags his eyes open. His head is lolling against the couch back. It feels intolerably heavy. It’s no surprise to see both Donna and Lester before him, shimmering mirages. It’s the nature of the drug. And it comes as no surprise when Donna slowly fades away, dissipating into nothingness. Even now, at the end, even here, even hallucinating, she will not stay for him.

Which leaves Lester. Of course, Lester wouldn’t leave. He’d never been able to keep away in reality after all, much to his own dismay. Daken can’t say for sure that it wasn’t simply the pheromones that had done it, that had kept Lester coming back to him time after time, unable to leave well enough alone.  He hadn’t even needed pheromones eventually, but the dependency had been well-established at that point. Was there really any distinction between him and Roston, he wondered idly, watching Lester watch him. And that was familiar too.

None of this is real, of course. Bullseye is, well, who knows exactly where Bullseye is right now, at this specific moment in time. Certainly not here, in a penthouse apartment with a view of the New York skyline Daken had literally killed for. But if he was here, what would he say? Something like -

“You’re a fucking mess.”

\- yes, something like that. Daken’s glad, very glad that the real Lester isn’t here to see him like this.

Lester saunters forward leisurely, hands in his pockets. He’s dressed in civilian clothes, the cheap, utilitarian jeans and white t-shirt combo he’d always worn around the Tower and Daken had always sneered at. He almost looks casual, except for his eyes, which dart around the room, moving from object to object restlessly. Finally, his eyes fall on Daken just as he comes to a stop, scarce feet away from where Daken is still sprawled on the couch. His eyes are cold, voice amused. “Look at you. All strung-out like some hollywood bimbo whose fifteen minutes of fame just ran out. What happened, finally realised the only reason anyone gave half a shit was because daddy’s famous?”

Daken relaxes further into the couch, languidly looking up at Lester. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips. If Bullseye were really here, he’d be anything but thrilled to be seen in this state, but as it is, it’s oddly comforting, the familiar sting of old insults being exchanged. “At least people give half a shit about me. Nobody’s ever given a shit about you, have they Lester? Not even Daredevil, and that must have stung, given how infatuated you are with him.”

Lester’s lips pull back in a snarl and he advances menacingly on Daken, a pen suddenly in his hand and an evil look in his eyes. “You that eager for me to put you down, mongrel?”

That insult lands. Of course it does. Bullseye has infallible aim, after all. Daken grabs him by the wrist, squeezes warningly until the pen drops from limp fingers. “Enough.”

“Already?” Lester taunts, grinning coldly. “Losing your touch. I’m disappointed.”

“Am I?” Daken questions, raising an eyebrow as he shifts his grip, loosening until its more of a hold, and letting his thumb brush lightly over the delicate skin of the wrist. The hallucination is good enough he can almost feel Lester’s pulse jump at the touch.

Lester jerks back as if the touch was electric, yanking his hand free. “Hands off, unless you want me to cut them off.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Daken says, amused. “To see me bleed, hmm?” He lets his claws slide free, ignoring the sharp pain as they tear through skin. “To hurt me.”

Lester’s brow crinkles in momentary confusion, eyes flicking warily between Daken’s face and the blood dripping between his knuckles. He’s taken a cautious half-step back, and Daken smirks a little at that, sitting up and resting his arms on his knees loosely. The blood trickles down the dark bone of his claws, drips jewel-bright red against the pale carpet. “Like what you see?” Daken asks, watching Lester’s face. The Heat makes everything shimmer, colours dance and blur and blend into one another. Even the dull ache of pain from his claws bursting free feels distant, fails to ground him.

“I don’t know what your game is,” Lester begins, eyes narrowed as he talks another step backwards, and another. Moving towards the door, eyes fixed on Daken like he’s a threat, like he’s something wounded but still violent. A strategic retreat but Daken doesn’t want him to leave, not yet.

“Stay,” he says, and his voice cracks shamefully on the word.

“Why?” Lester says, sounding agitated. “What’s in it for me, huh? You think I don’t have anything better to do than sit around and watch you crash and burn?”

“That sounds exactly like the kind of thing you like to do,” Daken says. He smiles at Lester, or bares his teeth at least, in a passable imitation of a smile, then starts to slowly unbutton his shirt. It’s not the easiest of tasks, his fingers almost-clumsy with vodka and the drug, his claws still extended. Blood splatters across the white fabric. This shirt is ruined, but he still takes the time to carefully undo it.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” Lester says, sounding disgusted.

Daken doesn’t bother to look up, just shrugs the shirt off. “I already told you. Not a game.”

Lester laughs at that, a harsh bark of a laugh. “Yeah, sure,” he gives a sneer, “like I believe that. It’s always games with you, Daken. You’re always running some kind of con. You can fool the others, but you can’t fool Bullseye!”

“Can’t I?” Daken queries, absently. He lets his legs spread a little wider, feels his erection brush against the taut fabric of his trousers. He wants Lester to watch, wants Lester to want. Cold blue eyes flicker down to Daken’s crotch, distracted, but Daken’s not satisfied with the attention of this pale shade. He wants the real thing, and it’s frustrating, knowing he’ll never have it. That make-believe is all the love he’ll ever have. Even if Lester were really here, even if he really was watching with hungry eyes as Daken unzips his fly, drags his trousers down until he’s covered only by the thin white fabric of his boxers, even then it wouldn’t be real.

“Is this what gets you off then, fairy-boy? Someone watching?” Lester sounds like he doesn’t know whether to be amused or disgusted.

“Perhaps,” Daken says evenly. He pulls the boxers down until he’s completely exposed. Blood smears against his skin and he watches for Lester’s reaction. He’d always liked to see Daken bloody…He rests his hands against his thighs, not touching himself, not yet, feeling the smooth bone of his claws brush against delicate skin. The touch elicits a shudder, a chill that trickles down his spine of something that is neither pleasure nor pure fear.

“...fucking predictable, fucking tame,” Lester says. “Stuck-up prick, thinking everyone’s got a hard-on for you, so in love with yourself because no one ever loved you.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” Daken says with a smile. The blood drips down, wet and hot against his skin. Lester, you sadist.

“Don’t make me laugh, pretty-boy,” Lester says evenly. “People like you and me don’t have hearts.”

“You’re probably right.” Daken wraps a hand around his erection. The Heat makes everything too much, and the sensation is more pain than pleasure, but this isn’t for his benefit after all. This is a performance, the opening scene in his final act. But if I did, you’d be the one to break it.

He moves his hand carefully, against the dry hot skin. The rougher skin of his palm catches and drags, before the blood runs down and makes everything slick and smooth. Easier. His breath is ragged. What a mess he’s made.

Looking up, Daken forces his eyes to focus. Lester swims into his sight. The bulls-eye carved into his forehead. “Do you like it?” he asks, not teasing for once. Right now it seems so important that Lester likes this, appreciates the exhibition Daken’s making of himself.

“What do you think?” Lester’s voice is flat, impossible to read.

“I think you like it, I think you like me, Lester,” Daken says, breath ragged. His hand moves against himself still, picks up pace. Careless, his claws catch the skin of his thigh, leave raised reddened scratches along it.

“I think I’d like it better if you were bleeding more,” Lester says, vicious to the end. “I want you -”

“Yes,” Daken says, or tries to say. His breath catches in his throat in a sob, a cry of exultation.

“I want you,” Lester continues, grim and unrelenting. “I want you bloody and bruised and broken.”

“Yes, yes, whatever it takes -” his babble is cut off as he comes abruptly, a wave of pleasure that's unable to counter the crashing sensations of despair and self-loathing that settle in as it fades. It’s unsatisfying in the extreme. _Just say you want me again._ But Lester’s gone and he’s alone.

Shakily, he gets to his feet, steps out of the puddle of his clothes. Blood and semen slide warm and wet down the inside of his legs. Daken moves to the window, stands naked before the glass and stares down at the sleeping city. _Tomorrow,_ he promises Lester silently, _tomorrow I’ll put on a show you’ll really like._

  
  
  
  



End file.
